


Abort Mission

by inelegantly (Lir)



Series: SWAG 2016 Fills [10]
Category: Hikaru no Go
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, M/M, Missions Gone Wrong, Poisoning, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-19 00:51:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5949997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lir/pseuds/inelegantly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Touya Akira is a spy. His partner has been dosed with an unidentified poison. Much as he likes to believe in his competency, all the training in the world hasn't prepared him enough to keep him from panicking over the possibility that Hikaru might not live through the mission. He wants the poison out of Hikaru, and wants to strengthen Hikaru's chances, and is willing to achieve those ends by whatever means appears necessary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Abort Mission

**Author's Note:**

> So, during SWAG there was one prompt for a spy AU, and another prompt for Hikaru no Go characters vomiting. I made the mistake of considering these two premises in conjunction, and "What if Hikaru was poisoned on a mission and vomiting and Akira was panicking?" and basically, I am very sorry for the story that has come about as a result. Just, not sorry enough.
> 
> I'm not tagging this as "emetophilia" simply because within the story, Akira is the opposite of aroused by the vomiting that is happening. However, I made my best attempt at writing the vomiting in an eroticized, weirdly intimate way, so please be forewarned. 
> 
> The rating is the result of my erring on the side of caution regarding the depiction of the vomiting. There is no violence or content typically considered to be sexual in this story.

-

They make it out onto the street before Hikaru starts getting the sweats. 

The flash drive is tucked safe in Akira's pocket and he hasn't thought much about how Hikaru is becoming increasingly free with his words, but all of a sudden it hits him: Hikaru is delirious. And not delirious with the high of a mission gone right, delirious in the most clinical, medical sense of the word. He's sweating and he keeps babbling, they did it, they got it, they did the whole thing, and all Akira can think is _something is wrong._

"We have to get back to the hotel," he tells Hikaru, taking him by the hand and squeezing it tight. "Right now." 

Their rendezvous for pickup isn't for four hours. Their documents are good, for a country like France, but the last thing _anyone_ wants is for them to leave a glaring, unnecessary medical paper trail. If Hikaru is sick, he's going to have to last.

"We should... Do another sweep!" Hikaru protests, with a grand outward gesture of his free arm. It only ends in him stumbling off-balance, leaving Akira to grip his hand tighter and pull him along.

"Come _on,_ Shindou," he insists. "The operation is done." 

It's difficult, dragging a sick person down narrow city streets. They aren't staying in the nicest of areas — part and parcel of the identities they're working under — and when they get to the building, Akira lets them in through the back. Hikaru is close to a dead weight, trembling against his arm and breathing shakily against his neck. His skin prickles all over beneath Hikaru's moist, heated breath — from worry or something else, Akira doesn't care to know. 

They get into their rented room, and Hikaru slides to the floor. 

Akira goes down with him, hauling Hikaru in to slump against his chest. His head lolls back on his neck, rolling against Akira's shoulder so his eyes stare vacantly up at the ceiling. They're glassy, like frosted-over marbles, focused on nothing and Akira clutches onto him, darting his own gaze around the room as if the surroundings will give him answers. 

They won't. They won't and he knows it. He needs to remain calm, assess the situation, make good use of all the complicated spy training that has been afforded to him. It doesn't matter that Hikaru is limp in his arms, terrifyingly silent when usually he's so full of fire and opinions that Akira doesn't want to hear the end of. It doesn't matter that Hikaru is his partner, and Akira doesn't want to lose him. It doesn't matter that this would be an incredibly idiotic way to die. 

"It isn't affecting me," Akira says to himself, speaking slowly into the room's weighing silence. "So it's unlikely to be anything environmental. Something only Shindou was exposed to, then." 

Hikaru mumbles something, his head lolling again to one side, his forehead bumping painfully against Akira's chin. Akira curses, and runs the evening back through his head. They were at a party, not as guests but because one of their contacts had promised to be there, they were at the party and Hikaru had seen that man, the man he swore was there that other time, at the Russian embassy—

Hikaru had seen something he swore wasn't right, and in typical, stubborn Hikaru fashion, he'd done something about it. What Akira would give, to work with someone less bullheaded. There was a _reason_ he and Hikaru never used to work the same ops. Maybe they won't again, not now, not after this. 

"Whatever you put into you," Akira mutters, low, vicious, "you need to get it back out." 

His hands shake, sliding up Hikaru's chest, sliding over Hikaru's neck. He cradles just under Hikaru's jaw and for a moment he can't move, hunched over Hikaru with knees spread and head bowed. He draws in another breath and his whole body shudders, like he's the one who's going to be sick. But he can't, not now, Hikaru is the one who needs to expel whatever's wrong with him. 

"Whassat—" Hikaru starts to say, mumbling into the side of Akira's face. His breath is still warm, and his hands scrabble momentarily, weakly, against Akira's legs. 

Something in the back of Akira's mind tells him, it's best not to vomit, if someone is about to pass out. The angry part of him that is _furious_ Hikaru has allowed this to happen, furious Hikaru made such a deadly mistake, retorts back, _too bad, we need this to go._

"What're you," Hikaru continues, "tryna... do...?" 

"Make sure you make it until the rendezvous," Akira tells him. 

It's a little easier, with Hikaru's mouth sagging open. Akira lifts his hand, crawls his fingers into Hikaru's mouth. He's drooling, sloppy, tongue pushing up against Akira's hand in a weak attempt at identifying the invasion. Akira pushes back, shoves his fingers in farther, is somehow _surprised_ when Hikaru gags and chokes around his hand. 

He gags, but he doesn't throw up. Akira's fingers are slippery, slick with Hikaru's spit where it's trickling down his wrist; Akira's hands shake and they're slippery and he can't get purchase. He pushes his fingers back against Hikaru's throat, and this time, when Hikaru gags and jerks within his arms, there's more than spit trailing down Akira's wrist. 

Abruptly, he yanks his hand back. 

He pulls away but Hikaru keeps going, curling over with only Akira's arm around his chest managing to keep him upright. He makes a noise like a cat choking up a hairball, and heaves, and sobs, and drools onto the floor. He spits up a mess of something and heaves again, retching dryly even while drool coats his chin. Every time he shakes, Akira shakes with him, holding Hikaru up by sheer force of will. 

The lights are still off in the room, and in the dimness, the pool of Hikaru's vomit looks shiny and dark. Akira _knows_ that if it's poison, it won't look like it, won't turn into a cartoonish puddle of vile, tarry ichor. He knows it, and yet seeing Hikaru spit up only clear, sticky liquid fills him with a hysterical sort of satisfaction. 

But even after that, Hikaru keeps retching, keeps shaking and gagging for a very long time. 

Before Hikaru is done, the throaty sound of his heaving is imprinted on Akira's brain, is echoing in his ears and off the walls of their rented room. Akira strokes his hair back from his sweaty forehead, gently, a feeble attempt at soothing Hikaru's distress. He can't drag Hikaru away from his puddle even once he thinks Hikaru has stopped; he can't pull Hikaru away, because every time he hopes Hikaru is done, he gives another caught-fish jerk, and heaves again before spitting wetly onto the messy floor.

Akira thinks to look at his watch, when Hikaru is finally quiet, and finds that it is almost three. 

They're sticky, and sweaty, and the time for the rendezvous is drawing increasingly near. Akira thinks desperately for a moment of cleaning himself up so he is presentable, before laughing aloud at the very idea. He's always going to be mired in Hikaru's mess — no need to begin deceiving anyone about it now. As if _deceiving people_ wasn't a major component of his occupation to begin with. 

"I hope you appreciate this, Shindou." he mutters, as he settles back to wait for their cavalry to come. 

-

-


End file.
